


Exiles of Logstedshire

by regardingseas



Series: Dream SMP One-Shots [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dream Smp, Exile, Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, It Is Edited Though, Light Angst, Littearly They're Siblings In Canon SMP Lore, Logsted, Logstedshire, Memory Loss, No Beta We Die Like Wilbur By Chekhov's Gun, Sibling Bonding, Wilderness Survival, l'manberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27906676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regardingseas/pseuds/regardingseas
Summary: Tommy and Ghostbur spend a stormy Winter's night in exile...Just a little one-shot, inspired by a drawing of the same nature by otherbec on Tumblr. Link here:https://otherbec.tumblr.com/post/636636751245508608/ahaha-so-these-dudes-got-exiled-or-somethin
Relationships: Only Platonic/Familial Relationships, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream SMP One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046515
Comments: 6
Kudos: 109





	Exiles of Logstedshire

Rain poured from dark clouds littering the night sky, leaving the starry consolations obscured by fog. Unforgiving howls of Winter's wind rolled through the grounds, snapping thin branches and sending dead leaves fluttering through the air.

The wool-knit sheets of Tommy's makeshift tent thrashed in protests, doing little to hold their place, and even less to shield the men inside. Harsh gusts blew through the mesh, carrying icy droplets of water with them, and making Tommy yank his blanket over his head for protection from the elements.

He couldn't help but shudder against the cold, clenching his jaw tight to avoid his teeth clattering in the same way. If he could, he'd curse his past self for forgetting something as simple as a sweater or jacket. After all, a T-shirt and some raggedy bandages sheathing his arms just wasn't going to cut it-- not in this weather.

"For the love of _fuck_ , it's colder than hell out here!" he hissed, earning a head tilt from Ghostbur.

"Isn't hell supposed to be hot?" he asked, sitting casually in the grass as if he were in a warm Spring meadow, rather than a freezing plain in the middle of nowhere. 

Tommy groaned, but Ghostbur simply continued rolling a cornflower petal between his fingertips until it stained them a soft blue.

"Besides," the spirit chimed, speaking in a small voice that sounded as if he was full of coy excitement, but somehow also on the verge of tears, "It feels fine to me."

Tommy scoffed from under the blanket, "Oh, you don't get to say what temperature feels 'fine.' You can't even feel it to begin with! I reckon it's nearly cold enough to _literally_ freeze your ass off."

"Mmm, you're probably right…" Ghostbur mused, switching to run a hand through the grass, watching as the green blades laced numbly through his skin. "I wish I could feel it."

"No, you don't," Tommy said dryly.

The spirit pulled his hand from the grass's sensationless kiss with a shrug, "Alivebur could. He got cold a lot, I know that. Especially because he hated wearing armour. He would light fires and stuff to help."

Another sigh, and Tommy hugged himself closer beneath the comforter that ironically didn't provide much comfort at all. "Well we can't rightfully do that in the rain, now can we?"

There was no reply, and the teen felt guilt prod at his heart again. The ache would rear its ugly little head every time he snapped too harshly at his older brother, either upsetting or confusing the man in one way or another. It was hardly fair to berate the ghost for the gaps in his memory, but Tommy hated how he avoided any serious topic like the plague. There was a time and place for accepting responsibility, and he was thrown into the wilderness because everyone was too afraid to see that.

"Why would you want to vacation here if you hate it so much?" Ghostbur asked suddenly, and Tommy had to dig his nails into his palms just to ground himself enough to formulate an answer that wouldn't tear down their credulous web of lies.

"Piss poor planning," he breathed, "Let's just say that the lime green bastard scheduled this, and he didn't account for a single thing." 

"Well, that seems irresponsible…"

"Understatement of the century, my friend…" Tommy agreed, shivering more violently as the storm picked up further.

Ghostbur eyed his trembling form nervously, "You really are cold."

"Yeah, no shit," he laughed feebly, screwing his eyes shut despite the darkness already encompassing him. The conditions allowed for very little starlight to penetrate the walls of the tent, and he could barely make out the dancing flame of their lantern from under his blanket-- its orange gleam appearing as a dull blur.

In this state, he almost regretted his incessant demands that they built a campsite rather than a home. 

_Almost._

This was worth it. That's what he told himself, at least. This was making a point. He didn't need a real house, that would be admitting defeat-- admitting that this relocation was long-term. He couldn't bring himself to do that.

Ghostbur hummed and rose to his feet, a feeble smile upon his face, "I might actually have something to help!"

Tommy opened his eyes and peered out from his blanket cocoon through the smallest gap he could manage. "And what's that?"

The spirit flung open a chest and began rummaging through its contents, pulling out a heap of folded brown fabric and holding it forward.

"What is-" he started, but stopped short when the cloth was unfurled to reveal a familiar trenchcoat. It was tattered around the edges, but still in relatively good condition considering its past, with a patch of Pogtopia's short-lived flag still sewn onto the sleeve.

"I can't remember how this ended up with me," Ghostbur noted, "but it's sure to keep you warm!"

Tommy was left in a rare moment of silence as his brother innocently offered the coat to him, unaware of how many memories he passed along with it.

"Oh," Tommy managed, taking hold of the trenchcoat and pulling it under the blanket to slip on property, "...thanks."

"You bet!" Ghostbur beamed, voice still treading that constant line between joy and heartbreak. It hurt just to hear, as if the pain from his life lingered ceaselessly, somewhere deep within his earthbound soul.

But the spirit paid it no mind as flipped up the hood of what was once his coat; the oversized headpiece falling over Tommy's eyes and forcing the teen to push it out of the way enough to see.

"Bad gave you a disc he found, didn't he?" Ghostbur asked, "Not one of the ones you're after, but still one that plays music?"

Tommy nodded, "Said it was one of the first he'd found... Chirp, I think it was."

"We should take a listen then," he said, jumping to set up the jukebox beneath their tarp and holding out his hand expectantly for the aforementioned record.

With a moment of hesitance, he retrieved the red labeled disc from his inventory and extended it towards Ghostbur, the man of which quickly plucked it from his grasp and inserted it into the player. The device whirred to life, beginning to admit a soft song amongst the rainfall. The music crackled and echoed, breathing forth the nostalgic tune of a time neither man had been around to experience in the first place.

Tommy huddled beneath his layers of fabric, allowing his eyes to once more fall shut against the darkness.

"Goodnight, Tommy," said Ghostbur as the teen nestled down to bed.

"Goodnight, Wilbur…" he replied in a hush, slowly drifting off with the aid of song, and the warmth of a trench coat that still smelled of old books.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
